The cold wind carried the scent of damp stone and burning torches, sweeping through the city square where thousands had gathered. The murmurs of the crowd formed an unsettling hum, a mixture of anticipation and excitement, their breath visible in the chill of the early morning.
Alexander Valtor knelt on the wooden platform, his hands bound behind his back with thick iron shackles. His once-pristine black and gold coat, a symbol of his noble house, was torn and caked in dirt. His face bore the marks of captivity—bruises darkened his sharp features, dried blood lined his temple, and his lower lip was split. Despite it all, his amber eyes remained sharp, unwavering as they stared at the man sitting upon the grand throne before him.
The crowd roared, voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony.
"Death to the traitor!"
"Burn in the abyss, Valtor!"
"May the gods curse your soul!"
Their hatred was palpable, their excitement sickening. These were the same people who once cheered his name, who once called him the empire's strongest sword. Now, they stood as his executioners, eager to watch the end of the man who had fought wars in their name.
On the raised throne, overlooking the spectacle, sat Emperor Aurelian VII, adorned in white and gold robes, his expression unreadable. Beside him, nobles whispered among themselves, their expressions carefully composed behind their intricately crafted masks. Some feigned sorrow, others amusement.
Alexander did not bother looking at them.
The emperor stood, raising a hand to silence the restless crowd. The city square fell into an eerie stillness, the only sound remaining was the distant cawing of crows perched atop the grand palace walls.
"Alexander Valtor," the emperor's voice rang clear, each word carrying weight. "For the crimes of treason against the Aurelio Empire, you are sentenced to death by public execution."
The crowd erupted into cheers.
Alexander said nothing, his gaze locked onto the emperor, unreadable.
"You were once a hero," the emperor continued, his tone solemn, as if he mourned the loss of a valuable pawn. "A warrior who brought victory to the empire, a noble who stood above all others. And yet, you chose betrayal."
A sharp laugh escaped Alexander's lips, low and humorless.
"Betrayal?" His voice was hoarse, his throat dry from days of imprisonment, but his words carried across the square. "Tell me, Aurelian, how many wars have I fought in your name?"
The emperor's expression did not waver, but the nobles shifted, unease flickering through their carefully composed faces.
"How many battles have I won for you?" Alexander continued, his voice steady, unbroken. "How many enemies have I cut down so that you could sit upon that throne without fear? You call me a traitor, yet it was my sword that defended this empire time and time again."
A murmur passed through the crowd. Even those who despised him could not deny his accomplishments.
Alexander turned his gaze to the audience, scanning the sea of faces. Some were unfamiliar, young nobles who had never seen a battlefield, who only knew his name from rumors whispered in the grand halls of the palace. Others, however, he recognized.
Veterans. Soldiers. Men who had once fought under his command.
Their eyes refused to meet his.
Cowards.
The emperor remained silent for a long moment before finally speaking.
"You have said your piece. Now accept your fate with dignity."
The executioner stepped forward. A massive man, clad in dark leather, his face obscured by a black hood. He carried a massive axe, its blade gleaming in the morning light.
The weight of reality settled upon Alexander's shoulders. This was it.
The end.
Yet, even as he knelt before death, his mind did not dwell on the chains that bound him, nor the axe poised to take his life.
Instead, memories of the past surfaced.
He closed his eyes, and for a brief moment, he was no longer in the city square, surrounded by jeering crowds.
He was on the battlefield.
The sky was painted in hues of crimson and gold, the sun dipping below the horizon as flames consumed the once-mighty walls of the Kingdom of Durnholm. The scent of burning wood and blood filled the air, mixing with the distant cries of the wounded and the dying.
Alexander stood amidst the wreckage, his golden armor splattered with mud and blood, his sword still warm in his grip. The battle had raged for three days, but now, it was over.
The empire had won.
His men stood behind him, their armor dented, their bodies weary, but their eyes filled with triumph. They had fought, bled, and sacrificed for this victory.
"Your orders, my lord?" one of his commanders asked, breathless from the fight.
Alexander surveyed the ruined kingdom, his gaze falling upon the defeated soldiers of Durnholm, now kneeling in the dirt, weapons cast aside. Among them were civilians—women, children, elders—huddled together, fear evident in their eyes.
"Spare the civilians," Alexander said after a pause. "Any soldier who lays down their weapon will be given mercy. The war is over."
His men nodded, moving to carry out his orders.
A war was fought not only on the battlefield but in the choices made afterward. Mercy was not weakness; it was what separated men from beasts.
The empire celebrated his victory, hailing him as the "Empire's Sword," a title he neither desired nor rejected. His role was clear—to serve, to protect, to fight in the name of Aurelio.
And so, he fought.
He crushed rebellions. Led campaigns against invading forces. Strengthened the empire's borders.
He built roads, established military academies, ensured the soldiers under his command were well-fed and well-trained. He secured peace, allowing the empire to flourish.
And yet, here he was.
On his knees.
A criminal in the eyes of the very people he had dedicated his life to protecting.
A rough hand gripped his shoulder, dragging him back to the present. The executioner positioned him over the wooden block, the cold surface pressing against his skin.
The crowd grew silent.
The axe was raised.
Alexander closed his eyes.
Perhaps this was his fate. A warrior who lived by the sword would die by it.
But deep within him, something refused to accept it.
His story could not end here.
His body may perish, but his will…
His will would not break.
The axe fell.
Darkness swallowed him whole.